One
by Katherine Elaine
Summary: Cas remembers everything from the shape of the glasses to the smell of Dean's sweat-drenched skin, and Dean? Dean can't recall a thing. Based on a tumblr post by castiels-fluffy-feathers. M for minor language and slight sexual themes.


It's 6:30 AM when Sam Winchester's eyes flutter open to a familiar buzzing sound, shaking him from sleep and causing the hunter to emit a low, regretful, tired groan as he reaches under his pillow and unplugs his cell phone from his charger. The screen lights up, simply labelled, "D" and under the contact name, "mobile".

"It's 6:30 in the friggin' morning, Dean, what do you want?"

Dean, on the other end, steals a quick peek, a sideways glance at the other half of his bed, startled to find the body next to him at all, but even more started that of all people, it isn't Sam. "Dude, I think we've got serious trouble," he states quietly, trying not to wake the other person from slumber.

"Dean, if you got another woman knocked up, I swear I'm gonna ban you from bars," Sam sighs loudly. "What's wrong?"

"No, dude, listen. It's—" Dean makes an attempt to stand up, his muscles aching, and a searing pain shoots through somewhere below his back, but he can't quite determine where or worse, why. He stumbled into the bathroom, closing the door and inhales a loud breath through his teeth, a hissing sound traveling down the line as he makes an attempt to sit down on the edge of the bath tub. "I don't know what happened. I just woke up… next to—"

"Next to Cas?" the younger brother finishes, his tone questioning.

The older Winchester pauses, frowning at the ground for a moment, before unfurrowing his brow. "How'd you know?"

"You were both drunk. You went home together. Well… 'home'. Take it as you will."

Dean looks around, vaguely recognizing the motel bathroom now, not sure how or from when, but it triggers some sort of memory, and Dean quirks an eyebrow before raising his voice just a few decibels. "This isn't funny, Sam!"

"I never said it was. Though, you seemed perfectly happy about it last night. I'm just surprised—but glad—that drunk angels can still fly straight. They should have a Mothers Against Drunk Flying campaign, too."

"Come on. You're kidding, right?"

"Wish I was. Half-naked angel in your bed? Can't be easy to wrap your head around."

Dean peeks out around the bathroom door, shutting it just as quickly. Sure enough, Sam's right—Castiel has turned over, eyes closed and bare shoulders visible over the edge of the covers. "Fuck."

"Maybe you did," Sam replies with a smirk. "Tell me, Dean. Any kind of pains?"

"Yeah, in my ass. Oh, wait, that might just be you." Sam chuckles, barely audible, but it manages to anger Dean just enough. "I don't remember any of this, Sammy. What the hell? What do I say to him?"

Sam contemplates for a moment. "I think, knowing Cas, he'll be the one to say something first. Probably, like—"

"Hello, Dean," says a voice just outside the bathroom.

Dean freezes, and mumbles to Sam that he'll call later, hanging up on Sam's confused protests. He opens the door, face to face with the Angel of Thursday himself. "Hey, yourself," Dean responds, sucking in a sharp breath. "Oh, God… You couldn't have put clothes on, could you?"

"I-I was unaware that it would bother you. After the events of yesterday, I—"

"Yesterday. Hah. Right. About that—"

"I'm sorry, Dean."

The hunter glances back up to Castiel's face, blue eyes wide and sad, apologetic and worried. "What? Why? You didn't—"

"I did. And it was never my intention to cause you bodily harm."

"Err… it wasn't exactly 'harm', Cas."

The angel only smiles. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. You're very difficult to read, Dean. One minute you're calling your brother for help, and the next—"

Dean flushes red, embarrassed. "You… you heard that?"

Nodding, Castiel continues to smile. "Your lack of certainty on how to react was endearing."

"Dare I ask, but—Cas, what happened?"

Castiel turns, heading back for the bed he'd slept in, and pulls a pair of Dean's boxers from his bag, slipping into them. Dean takes the chance to study the curves of the angel's body, the swells and dips, soft flesh that he would love to sink his hands, fingertips, nails, teeth into—again. He doesn't protest as Castiel slips into his clothing, only leans against the door frame and watches. He's never seen the angel dress, and the confusion on Cas' face about such a basic human activity is, well, adorable.

He limps over, still pained from the experience, and withdraws a grey t-shirt from his own bag, requesting quietly that Castiel turns around. The angel obeys, raising his arms and allowing Dean to slip the tee over his arms and head and shoulders, pulling the hem down to meet the waistband of Dean's boxers. They share a momentary smile as Cas acknowledges the help, a silent 'thanks' for Dean in their private moment he sits effortlessly on the edge of the bed behind him, and pats a spot next to him, gesturing for Dean to take a seat. Dean, before doing so, stretches his arms and slips on his slippers, the second article of clothing to grace his body, only after his own boxers that he doesn't recall putting on.

"We committed a sinful act," Castiel informs the hunter.

Dean rolls his eyes. "That's brand new information, thanks, Cas," he says, his voice dripping with thick sarcasm. "I couldn't tell from the pain in my, uh, lower back-ish quadrant." He reached for the bottled water he'd had the night before, taking short sips between his sentences and Castiel's.

"I am very sorry," the angel says softly, gaze averting from Dean's bare chest to the floor. He folds his hands in his lap, fingertips unsteady as he tries anxiously to word things gently. Practically human since falling, Castiel knows that it wouldn't make a difference if he'd used some of the language he'd heard Dean use the previous evening; the words, however, feel foreign on his tongue and he decides to stick to what he knows. He knows Dean, he knows the burn of alcohol and the taste of it on Dean's tongue. And, he asks himself, why would he ever want to know anything else? "We fornicated, Dean. You asked me to, well…" Cas pauses, giggling nervously. "Fuck you like you've been dreaming about."

At the completion of the angel's sentence, Dean spits his water across Castiel's lap, spraying the liquid like a fountain. The angel only laughs, and redirects his gaze to meet with the hunter's, who stares back wide-eyed with disbelief. "No. No, you've got to be kidding me," he demands.

Castiel shakes his head. "Dean, you forget that I can enter your dreams. Alter them, even, if I so desire. Believe me, I've seen myself up there, and I have no reason to reject the ideas you have while asleep."

Dean blinks, still shocked. So, Cas knew everything. His dreams, his fears. His longing, his yearning. Worse yet, Cas hadn't forgotten them, and probably wouldn't anytime soon, from the sounds of things. Angel memory—God, Dean wished he could change that. "Wipe the damn smirk off your face, would you?"

The angel obeys, apologizing profusely again. "Dean, understand me. I do not regret the circumstances that we have been left in this morning, nor those that we ended up in last night."

"God, I never should've brought you to that bar…"

"Are you listening?" Cas asks, his voice raising perhaps too loudly, causing the lamp on the table to rattle slightly. He dismisses the motion, however, and continues to focus on Dean, lowering his volume. "I am only sorry that it hurt when—when I, well, penetrated."

Cas topped. Castiel, the innocent warrior of Heaven who had never even heard of pornography until a few years ago, topped in bed. And Dean, ever the alpha male, took it like a man. The memory hits the hunter like a hand grenade.

"_Cas—god, Cas—"_

"_Dean, I am an angel. Do not bring my Father's name into th—"_

"_Shut up, Cas, just—fuck, faster, please-!"_

Castiel waves a hand in front of Dean's face to snap him back into reality, and as the memory of the angel's fist curling around his length starts to fade, Dean sighs. "I take it you enjoyed it."

Dean follows Cas' line of sight into his own lap, and sure enough, Dean's still enjoying it the morning after. "I—" He attempts to apologized, fumbling for words, and instead only pulls the covers over his boxers as if hiding his erection will make Cas less aware that it exists.

"Do not be ashamed," Castiel commands. "There is no shame in pleasure."

"Sin," Dean corrects. "You said it was a sin."

"Only because we are taught such things. They are programmed into the angels upon creation."

"And do you believe that? That sex is a sin?"

Castiel appears to think for a moment, looking down to Dean's now-covered lap and taking one of the hunter's hands in his own. "Not when it's with you," he answers softly.

The words hit Dean like a tidal wave, washing over him with fury and angst and longing and need. Promiscuous sex was, yes, a sin according to God's word. But where love was patient and kind, sex was a forgivable, natural act. Love.

Overwhelmed, Dean takes a shaking breath. Love? He'd never known how to define such a feeling, not with Cassie, not with Lisa. It wasn't the feeling of comfort, knowing you had something to look forward to and come home to and the end of a long day. It wasn't even feeling like there was home, especially when 'home' to Dean had, for most of his life, been four wheels and windows and doors, an all-black exterior that complimented the pale leather interior of a 1967 Chevy Impala.

No, love was something more than a feeling. It's regretting the simple slip of a hand in Purgatory, and leaving someone behind when they needed to heal. It's the innocence felt when your heart flutters every time you steal a glance. It's the smile that forces its way to the corners of your lips without permission, and the unwilling laughter the escapes you when you're having fun with someone you care about. More than that, it's the feeling of a profound bond, of belonging somewhere finally after being an outcast for longer than you care to remember, of feeling like a embrace from a pair of wings is the only thing you need. Love is feeling complete, it's being overjoyed by the simple gestures, by smiles. By blue eyes, a tie, and a trench coat.

Love is staring at Dean Winchester, head tilted sideways, always questioning. "Dean?"

"Cas," he responds immediately, his voice light as a feather. His hand releases Castiel's, traveling up the angel's arm, chest, and neck, settling on his cheek with his thumb splayed across the angel's lips. "Don't ruin this with words." He can hear his heart nearly beating out of his chest, but he shuts it out, drawing Castiel's face closer to his own, eyes fluttering closed as their lips connect.

Castiel is warm, comforting, and the memories haunt Dean, craving more. He feels Castiel's vessel tense, and starts to pull away, but the angel instead wraps his arms around the hunter's neck.

Thighs. Dean remembers caressing Castiel's thighs. Inner, outer, it didn't matter. He remembers feeling those thighs between his own, rolling Cas onto his back as he trailed kisses across the angel's collarbone. Slow, soft presses of his lips to his neck, and the most heavenly—all puns intended—sounds he's ever heard. The hunter recalls whispers, Castiel's voice in his ear, soothing as Dean knelt on all fours. He remembers the feeling of the pillow he'd buried his face in at the searing pain, and the sheets and headboard his fingertips had gripped until his knuckles had turned completely white. Finally, Dean recalls his body numbing as they collapsed, Castiel at his side, propped up on one elbow with his head in his hand. Dean lay on his stomach, returning the gaze with a smile, and then—

Castiel's lips break from his own, eyes fluttering open to just in time to see Dean's do the same. The share the look, a mixture of surprise, awe, and contentment before Castiel nervously starts counting Dean's freckles to distract himself from his own rapid heartbeat.

That wasn't sex; that was making love.

"Cas," Dean says again, eyes never leaving the angel's.

"Dean," he returns with a nod, closing his eyes.

Dean only takes the opportunity to lay back on the bed, pulling Cas with him, their bodies falling flush together. The hunter knows many things, one of them being that they cannot be apart. Not now, not ever again. He runs a hand through Castiel's hair, soft and gentle, and the angel practically purrs with delight. He chokes on the lump rising in his throat, and the words are whispered and shaky but intelligible: "You're beautiful."

Castiel says nothing, only nuzzles into the crook of Dean's neck and smiles, content with the response. "We are," he says after a few moments.

The conversation ends there. Dean learns that sometimes, yes, words aren't enough; however, some things are better left unspoken. The silent smiles, soft laughter, tender kisses say everything else that needs to be said.

They don't hear it when Dean's phone buzzes a few hours later—Sam calling back, worried—too deep into dreams, buried too far into each other's arms, just where they'd like to stay. In that moment, they swear they're invincible.

In that moment, they are not two, but one.


End file.
